The detour meant that we had to go on a twenty-mile Cook's tour to get home.
It is a remarkably warm night for the season, the ground almost entirely bare. The stars are dazzlingly bright. The fault may be in my own barrenness, but methinks there is a certain poverty about the winter night's sky. The stars of higher magnitude are more bright and dazzling, and therefore appear more near and numerable, while those that appear indistinct and infinitely remote in the summer, imparting the impression of unfathomability to the sky, are scarcely seen at all. The front halls of heaven are so brilliantly lighted that they quite eclipse the more remote. The sky has fallen many degrees.
Who has not kept, at least, a vague remembrance of this state of our infant bosom when it was permitted to saturate itself, without admixture of forcing reasons and reasoning, with the emotions produced by new contacts, new movements, new colors, new sounds, new voices, new associations, new sceneries, new people; […] But how few children are allowed the inenarrable delicacies of this education by the sympathies!
The fireman knows the marks of the arsonite. If there are any footprints left behind, he will discern them at once.
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